Nepenthe
by leavinghope
Summary: Definition of NEPENTHE 1:  A potion used by the ancients to induce forgetfulness of pain or sorrow 2:  Something capable of causing oblivion of grief or suffering (M-W) John Watson has a way of ignoring the truth of things – the lie of his wife, the love of his best friend, and the ease of his denial. But when forced to know these truths, what will he choose to forget?
1. Knowing - Part 1

_The plan_ , John Watson thought to himself, _should have worked_. He and Sherlock Holmes had followed the murder suspect back to his business, a small shop off of a well-illuminated long alley in Soho, and they were going to wait for Greg Lestrade and the other Yarders to show up to apprehend him. But in the chaos of the holiday season and the east wind that had blown Sherlock back into his life, John had forgotten that the densely crowded night street market that would have provided them cover had been cancelled after New Year's until Valentine's Day drew the post-dinner patrons back out into the London winter evening for artisanal chocolates and flowers and warm cider.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do?"

The two men pressed back against a dark painted brick wall, hoping the few shadows would prevent the very likely armed suspect from seeing them and adding to his list of victims.

"We stick to the plan." Sherlock flipped up his collar to fend off the chill.

"We can't bloody stick to the plan." John rubbed his hands together to keep them warm and away from Sherlock's neck. "You are too recognizable. Shelton could look out that window at any moment and see the world's only celebrity detective outside."

"Well, we can't leave. Surprise is our only advantage at the moment. If he leaves before Lestrade arrives, we'll hold back and follow him again."

John waved his hands at the broad alley. "Where exactly will we hold back? We're completely exposed out here."

Sherlock mumbled petulantly, "It isn't my fault that the street is empty tonight."

John fought to keep his voice at a low level. "And you have been splashed on the covers of all the papers constantly since the Moriarty video, so odds are that Shelton will figure out we aren't just out for a stroll."

Sherlock raised a finger to his mouth and shushed John, who raised two impolite fingers in return. Sherlock heaved a great sigh and edged closer to John. "Lestrade and the others can't be much more than five minutes behind us."

"I hope you're right." John fought the urge to lean into the warmth emanating from Sherlock.

The lights went out in Shelton's shop. "Sherlock, I think he's leaving." John looked up at Sherlock, whose face betrayed his concern with the situation. As the door started to open, John's instincts took over. He shoved Sherlock up against the wall, grabbed the nape of his neck to shield Sherlock's distinctive facial structure from their suspect's gaze, and kissed him.

It was a perfunctory kiss. Just two mouths in contact, no motion, and certainly no tongue. Sherlock's characteristic cheekbones and blue scarf were largely hidden by John and his normalcy, and Shelton showed no hesitation in his movements as he left his shop. John relaxed and kept his mouth on Sherlock's and his eyes open, waiting for the telltale flicker of light in his peripheral vision that would tell him which way their suspect was going. As the sound of footsteps receded, John broke off contact with Sherlock and moved quietly in the direction of Shelton's departure. He had already taken several steps when he realized that Sherlock was not following him.

John turned back and saw Sherlock motionless where he had left him. "Come on, Sherlock. He's slipping away."

Sherlock didn't move, so John approached him. He was unprepared for the fury in Sherlock's expression.

"What…"

Sherlock interrupted John. "Why did you do that? Why would you do that to me?"

John recoiled a step. "I just thought it was the easiest way to keep Shelton from noticing us."

Sherlock clenched his hands into tight fists and shoved them in his coat pockets, and without another word, he walked down the alley in the opposite direction as their suspect and away from John.

"Sherlock!"

There was no response to John's fierce whisper, and Sherlock never once broke stride as he disappeared around the corner. John was torn. Should he go after their suspect and conclude a weeklong investigation, or should he chase after his best friend and figure out why a kiss had made him so angry? Because it had to have been the kiss. Sherlock had never opposed John making independent decisions on cases before. He would be upset with John if the suspect got away, however. He was still debating his next move as Lestrade and Sally Donovan jogged down the street to his location.

Greg and Sally spoke in unison.

"Where is Sherlock?"

"Where is Shelton?"

John answered Sally first, gesturing towards the south end of the alley. "Shelton went that way."

Sally got on her phone and ordered officers into position. Satisfied that Sally had things under control, Greg focused on John. "Did Sherlock go after him?"

"No."

Greg ran a hand over his hair the way he often did when frustrated. "Then where is he?"

"I don't know."

"You don't know." Greg repeated. "John, what happened here?"

John shook his head. "I'm not sure. It made sense at the time."

"What did?"

"We were too exposed as Shelton left. To give us cover, I kissed Sherlock."

Sally rejoined the two men. "You what?"

"It was just a kiss. A simple, boring kiss. I have no idea why it made him so angry that he'd leave without going after Shelton."

"You are an idiot." Sally shot an angry look at John.

"Donovan, stop it."

Sally put her hands in the air to fend off Greg's disapproval. "I'll just be apprehending our murder suspect now, while you explain to Doctor Watson here why Sherlock is upset."

John had no idea what was going on with Sherlock, but he was certain that Sally was in no position to judge him for it. "What would you know about it?"

Sally walked over to John and stood nose-to-nose with him. He stared back in a way that he'd learned intimidated most people, but Sally Donovan was not most people.

"Sally, please," Greg interrupted.

Sally glanced at her colleague and then quickly back at John. "Idiot." And then she ran down the alley to join the rest of her team.

Now that Sally had gone, John typed a quick text to Sherlock. _Where are you?_ He looked up from his phone to see Greg staring at him as if he were the murder suspect. _He_ ' _s upset with me,_ John thought.

"What the hell is wrong with everyone?" John yelled.

"John…"

"No, really. It isn't like it was his first kiss." Visions of Janine on Sherlock's lap flooded John's mind. "It wasn't even his first kiss for a case!"

Greg grabbed John's shoulders and stared directly into his eyes. "John, you're an idiot."


	2. Knowing - Part 2

"Am I done here?" John pushed the case paperwork towards Greg, who sat behind his desk.

"You'd have been done in half the time if you hadn't kept checking your phone."

John knew Greg was correct. He had been distracted by Sherlock's silence, no response to any of the texts John had sent in the few hours since Sherlock left him behind in the alleyway.

"So I'm free to go, yeah?" John stood up from his chair.

"Any word from Sherlock yet?" Greg looked pointedly up at John.

John glanced at the phone in his hand. No new notifications. He shook his head.

Greg leaned back in his chair and propped his legs up on his desk. Tapping a pencil on his knee, Greg began with, "John, I'm not sure how to say this."

"That didn't stop Donovan earlier, and apparently you both think I'm an idiot, so really, don't hold back now." John put his hands on his hips, attempting to project more confidence than he felt.

"When you do see Sherlock, be careful with him."

John was itching to leave, but still had to ask, "What does that even mean?"

Greg swung his legs back off the desk and leaned forward on his elbows. "It's pretty obvious kissing Sherlock meant nothing to you, but are you sure that's true for him?"

"Of course." Once again, John envisioned Janine in Sherlock's arms. "I've seen him fake interest as part of investigations before."

Greg pursed his lips, betraying his hesitance about what he was going to say next. "John, in all honesty, I can say I've never seen Sherlock fake interest where you are concerned."

Those words echoed in John's thoughts as he flagged down a cab outside of New Scotland Yard. The implications were profoundly shocking, that Sherlock could be interested in more than friendship with John. He'd found himself biting back his usual _I don_ ' _t think he feels things that way_ because John had witnessed how much Sherlock could care. About him, about Mary, about their unborn child. Sherlock had the capacity to care so much.

A taxi stopped abruptly kerbside. "Destination?"

As John sat down in the cab, he knew he should return to the flat he shared with his wife. Things were strained there, to be sure, but there was a child on the way. John Watson was not a man who ran from his responsibilities. He had made a vow, one he intended to honor.

"Destination?" The cabbie's impatience cut through John's thoughts.

"Baker Street, 221B."

 _Never did find out the origin of the Moriarty video. Sherlock might be in danger._ John convinced himself he was only concerned for Sherlock's safety, not the hurt expression on his face before he had turned and walked away from an active investigation, never looking back. That expression and Greg's parting words haunted John. Panic was gnawing at him, his mouth dry and stomach clenched by the time the car reached his flat.

 _Sherlock_ ' _s flat_ , John reminded himself. After paying the cabbie, he opened the door with the key he had kept after Sherlock's long convalescence during the previous autumn. During his engagement, John had not accepted the key Sherlock offered, needing to delineate between his old and new homes, his old and new lives. Now he clung to the key, a reminder that Sherlock had given him his miracle yet again.

John tiptoed past Mrs. Hudson's closed door. It was still before midnight, but she must be asleep. That, or she had decided to shut out the sad violin music floating down from 221B.

John quietly ascended the stairs and stopped by the slightly ajar door. In the sitting room, Sherlock gently swayed with the movement of his bow while standing by the fire burning in the hearth. He had changed his clothes, now wearing an old t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and his camel-coloured dressing gown, the same one he was wearing when John asked him to be his best man. The memory of that day always filled John with fondness for his friend, but deep shame in himself. Shame, because Sherlock's funny, charming reaction to his question stemmed from the fact he had no idea what he meant to John. That John considered him his best friend, one of the most important people in his life. _If I_ ' _ve managed to communicate my affection for him so poorly, is it possible I_ ' _ve misinterpreted his feelings for me?_

The melody ended, and Sherlock lowered his violin. As he turned to place it in its stand, John said, "That was lovely."

Sherlock dropped his bow. As he bent over to pick it up, John apologized. "I didn't mean to startle you."

"I wasn't expecting you."

"Thought you'd want to know Shelton is in custody."

"Good. Thank you."

Sherlock had not looked at John once during this entire exchange. John took a deep breath. He did not want to have this conversation, but could see no alternative. He took off his jacket and settled down into what he will forever think of as _his_ chair, and he indicated Sherlock should sit as well. He allowed himself a few moments to appreciate the warmth of the fire and the familiarity of sharing it with Sherlock before forcing himself to speak.

"So, why did you run off? That's not like you."

Sherlock shrugged as he carefully arranged himself in his chair. "I knew you had it handled."

"Bollocks."

Sherlock picked at non-existent lint on his sleeve. "You know I've always valued your capabilities. Your help is..."

John interrupted. "Quit it. Why did you leave?"

Sherlock folded his hands over his knees and continued to avoid eye contact with John. "Do we really have to discuss this?"

"Yes, whatever _this_ is."

Sherlock jumped out of his chair. "Oh, for God's sake, don't pretend you don't know."

"So far tonight, both Donovan and Lestrade have called me an idiot, so feel assured I truly do not know what is going on."

Sherlock stood behind his chair and leaned against it. He shook his head slowly. "You are not an idiot, John. There are just things you choose not to see."

"Tell me. Tell me what I'm not seeing."

John's request was met only with silence.

"Was it the kiss?"

Yet again silence was Sherlock's only response.

"Why did it bother you so much that I kissed you? It was for the case."

Finally Sherlock looked directly at John, anger in his gaze. "But that's exactly it. How could you do that to me? Let me taste you just the once while showing me how little it meant to you. "

John was grateful he was sitting down, for his whole world tilted at Sherlock's words. He'd always known their friendship ran stronger and deeper than he'd previously experienced. But Sherlock had shown no interest in him, in no man. And John had never asked Sherlock about his past, but had rather made assumptions based on observed behavior - possibly asexual, leaning towards women, if interested at all. But not in John, who struggled to speak. "I did not realize how it would affect you."

"And don't you get how that is just another twist of the knife? When was the last time I did not put your needs above my own? Years, John, years. But you still perceive me as the callous man I was when we met, and it hurts me. You hurt me." Clearly frustrated, Sherlock hit his chair hard enough for John to rise from his chair and extend one arm to gentle him.

"Sherlock…"

Sherlock held up a hand, his chair forming a barrier between him and John. "Stop, John."

John stepped backwards and collapsed into his chair, giving Sherlock the space he clearly wanted. "Let's just put this behind us, okay?"

"Put it behind us? Do you think I can just delete it, like any sort of inconsequential fact so many people have rattling around in their heads? Do you think I can delete anything about you? Have you understood nothing I've said?"

All John understood was the anguish in Sherlock's voice and the utter certainty that he'd put it there. "I am so sorry. I honestly had no idea."

"And I never wanted you to know. Because what possible good would ever come of it?" Sherlock waved a hand in the air between them. "Yet here we are. "

"Look, Sherlock, you're still my best friend, and I am yours. This changes nothing for me."

"Shouldn't it? Do you truly care about me so little that you feel no impact? Shatter my world, while nothing changed in yours?"

John knew he felt off-kilter, numb, and, worst of all, completely unable to say anything to ease Sherlock's pain. He kept opening his mouth, but no words would come out. The only sound in the room was the crackling of the flames burning low in the fireplace.

"If you leave now, the Jubilee line should still be running."

 _Please don't make me leave before we fix this._ "I'd prefer to be with you. Maybe grab a late dinner?"

"John, I would appreciate it if you would leave now."

"If you're absolutely sure."

"I'm sure."

"Okay." John clapped his hands on his knees as if to show he was getting up, but remained seated. "I already gave my statement to Greg, but I can meet you at the Yard in the morning when you give yours, yeah?"

"That won't be necessary."

"I don't mind." John smiled at Sherlock, but it was wasted because Sherlock would not even look at him.

After a moment, Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, I think it would be for the best if we did not see each other for awhile."

"No, Sherlock. I don't agree."

"Please, John, just leave me be."

It was the _please_ that did it. It was obvious his presence was painful for Sherlock, and making Sherlock suffer was the last thing John had ever wanted to do.

"Alright." John stood up and put on his jacket slowly, hoping Sherlock would change his mind and ask him to stay. But by the time he'd reached the threshold, Sherlock had not called him back.

John paused in the doorway. "I'll, uh, text you, see how you're doing?"

Sherlock gripped the back of his chair, knuckles showing white. After a heavy sigh, he made eye contact with John and said, "Good-bye, John."

"Right." John nodded and closed the door behind him.

The sad music from Sherlock's violin followed John down the stairs and out onto Baker Street.


	3. Knowing - Part 3

John gently closed the door to the flat. It was only a little after midnight, but at this late stage in her pregnancy, Mary had been retiring earlier and earlier to bed. He took off his black jacket and hung it on the coat rack standing in the entryway, one of Mary's many attempts to make the flat homier. It just never looked like home to John without Sherlock's long wool coat hanging next to his jacket.

John settled on the sofa after using the loo to wash up and change into a long-sleeved t-shirt and striped pajama bottoms. There was a book on the side table and his laptop on the coffee table, but he had no inclination to pick up either. Instead, he sat with his head in his hands until he heard footsteps in the hallway. He sighed, really not wanting to talk to Mary after the night he'd had.

Mary entered the room and greeted him with "You're home earlier than expected."

"The suspect was apprehended. The case is over." John hoped his curt response would shorten their interaction.

No such luck.

Mary slowly lowered herself into her rocking chair, and as she adjusted pillows to get comfortable, she said, "Usually you go out with Sherlock to celebrate after. Sometimes you don't even come home til the next day. Don't tell me you decided to ditch Sherlock to spend time with your wife."

John had once found her biting wit attractive, but it put him on edge now. "Don't. Just don't."

"Oh, I hit a nerve."

Mary narrowed her eyes as she scrutinized the tension in John's body, the strain in his jaw. "What happened?"

John maintained his stony silence. He had no desire to talk to her.

"If we're ever expected to get through this, John, you at least need to talk to me as if we were friends." Mary spoke with her usual confidence, but a note of pleading crept into her words.

John grudgingly admitted to himself that Mary had a point. He had chosen to return to her, to return to their marriage. He did not trust her any longer, but he also missed the friendship they'd once shared _._ If it had been real at all. Still, it was obvious Mary wasn't going to let the matter slide, so John finally said, "I kissed Sherlock."

Mary laughed. "You what?"

John crossed his arms over his chest. "It was for the case. To give us cover in an exposed location. It was the first thing that came to mind. I kissed him, and then he ran off without going after the suspect."

"I can't even get a peck on the cheek, much less have you share my bed, in months, but you can make out with your boyfriend for a case."

The hurt and frustration in Mary's tone was genuine, and it enraged John. "For fuck's sake, Mary, he's not my boyfriend. And it was just a simple kiss, Jesus. It isn't like he's never kissed anyone for a case before."

"For a case." There was a hesitation in Mary's voice that hadn't been there before.

John said, "Yes, it wasn't like it was his first kiss or something."

"Perhaps it was his first kiss with…" Mary paused, her lips forming a silent _oh_.

"With what?"

"With someone he loves." Mary spoke quietly, almost a whisper. The she grabbed her knitting off of the side table, and for a few moments, the clicking of her needles was the only sound in the room.

Surprised by the pause in the discussion, John asked, "You alright?"

"What?" Mary was clearly distracted by her thoughts. "Yeah. It's just a bit much to take in."

Despite himself, John smiled. "The idea of Sherlock being in love with me is quite a shocker."

Mary snorted and shook her head. "Oh, John, please."

Yet again that night, John's world tilted. "What? Seriously? You suspected Sherlock was in love with me?"

"Suspect? John, I knew. Everyone knows."

John's head hit the back of the sofa with a thud. "Yeah, I'm getting that, thank you."

"You really didn't know?" Mary leaned forward, still knitting, but with her concentration on John.

"Why would I have thought he was in love with me? He never said. He planned our wedding. He encouraged me to go back to you after you shot him. He left me behind for two years, thinking he was dead." John's voice had risen to the point of shouting. "Sorry."

Mary appraised him thoughtfully. "So you did see it, see all the ways he cares about you. How he put your happiness above his own, time and time again."

"That isn't what he…"

Mary interrupted. "Isn't it?"

John slumped forward, elbows on his thighs, head in his hands. He exhaled loudly. "I don't know. I don't know anything anymore."

"Was Sherlock upset?"

"That would be putting it mildly."

"I'm sorry."

John bit back his instinctive _I bet you are_. After his argument with Sherlock, he knew he couldn't handle more conflict that night. Instead he found himself focusing on something Mary had said earlier.

"So, if you weren't surprised by the idea of Sherlock being in love with me, what shocked you before?"

Mary fidgeted with the knitting on her lap. She looked distinctly unhappy, and John suddenly felt worried for whatever shoe was about to drop.

"John, when you returned to me, we promised to be completely truthful with each other."

"Yes."

"But you also didn't want to know about my past, so I decided to be completely honest from that moment forward, and I have been. Ever since Christmas Day, I have been living a truthful life with you." She paused, chewing on her lower lip. "However, in light of tonight's conversation, there is something I should tell you now."

"Okay."

"There is a possibility this baby is not yours."

A roar filled John's ears. He had never imagined this.

Mary sniffed, fighting back tears. "From the way you were mourning Sherlock when I met you and from all of the stories about the two of you in the media, I always assumed you'd been lovers before he jumped."

"Well, you were wrong."

"Yes, but I only just realized that tonight. I mean, he was so clearly in love with you, and you..." Mary trailed off.

"Just say it."

"You have been in love with Sherlock for years. Since before I knew you. And right this very moment."

John honestly had no response to that. And even if he did, he wasn't sure he could make his words louder than those echoing through this head. _Everyone knows. In love with Sherlock for years. Not yours. Not yours. Not yours._

Mary continued, sounding almost as if she were talking to herself. "I knew you'd be faithful after we exchanged vows, that's just the kind of man you are. But from the way the two of you looked at each other, I assumed you'd given in, at least had one last fling. So, I decided to have one, too."

Something suddenly clicked for John. "David?"

"Yeah."

John seethed. "And you were never going to tell me?"

"How could I? The baby was the only reason you were willing to come back to our marriage!"

"And it could possibly be based on a lie!"

Mary did not bother to hide her disbelief. "It already was. Our marriage is a lie. I am a lie! And you, you have spent so much time lying to yourself that you don't even realize you're doing it!"

The pain of old accusations stung John. "I am not gay."

"But you're in love with Sherlock Holmes, you have been for years, and you're terrified."

"I'm not…" John's chest was heaving, like the onset of a panic attack. He concentrated on controlling his breathing, and Mary took the opportunity to say something she'd obviously been holding in for some time.

"And you don't have the guts to admit our marriage is the lie you're more comfortable with than the truth."

 _So many lies_ , John thought.

"Our marriage is a lie I'm not willing to live anymore, Mary. I'm sorry. I should never have come back."

Mary smiled sadly. "I know."

John recalled how similar David's appearance was to his own, how he'd joked with Sherlock that Mary clearly had a type. And he knew if the baby were David's, he likely would have never guessed.

"Thank you for telling me about the baby now."

Mary put her knitting back on her table and folded her hands over her belly. "We can get a paternity test done as soon as possible."

"Yes, good, right."

The two sat in awkward silence for a few moments before Mary pushed down on the arms of her chair to provide the leverage needed to stand up. John felt a brief pang of guilt for not rushing over to help her, but his body seemed made of lead. He shot her a look that stopped her in the midst of reaching out to touch his shoulder. Instead, she timidly said, "I do love you."

John looked up at Mary's tear-stained face. "I loved who I thought you were, I really did, but I don't love you. I'm sorry."

"I knew, deep down. I just hoped..." Her lower lip trembled as her words trailed off.

They shared an awkward silence, until finally Mary said, "I'm going back to bed."

"Call out if you need anything." John may not love her anymore, but he had a doctor's compassion for a woman near the end of the third trimester.

She gave him a small, grateful smile, and then she turned and walked to their bedroom.

John remained on the couch, next to the bedding he had been using to sleep there since moving back at Christmas. He doubted he'd get much sleep that night. He needed to decide what to do next. Even if the baby were his, the marriage was over. He and Mary could share custody, like any cordial divorced couple. If the baby was not his, leaving Mary would just be that much easier. The disappointment over not being a father would be harder to get over. John knew he needed a safe place to work through that pain, although where remained to be decided.

If he forced himself to be completely honest, his instinct was to run to Baker Street. However, Sherlock did not want him there. He'd made that clear just a few brief hours ago. He'd asked John for space, and John must give it to him. John did not know when Sherlock would want to see him again. John was not sure Sherlock would ever let him come home.

 _Home._

A single tear dropped from John's eye as he realized his decision had been made long ago.


	4. Forgetting - Part 1

The cold moist air coming off the Pacific filled John's lungs as he left the reception area of the resort, duffel bag in hand. He wished he'd been allowed to drive his rental car all the way up the mountain, but the posh resort insisted on limiting traffic by shuttling visitors up by hybrid SUV. The soldier in him agitated against loss of control, but the peaceful environment suited his mood. He was exhausted, but also grateful his search for Sherlock was finally coming to an end. He had refused the offer of a ride to the secluded coast house that was his final destination. He needed a hike in the dwindling daylight to help him plan what he was going to say to Sherlock once he finally saw him.

It had been a long journey. John had waited a week after his poorly thought out kiss to send a text to Sherlock. When it went unanswered for three days, John showed up at Baker Street.

Sherlock was not there.

Mrs. Hudson emerged from her flat as John started up the stairs. "If you're looking for Sherlock, I don't know when he'll be coming back. He's gone on a trip. Said he needed to get away for awhile."

"That's my fault, I'm afraid."

"Oh, did the two of you have a fight?"

"Something like that. Any idea of where he might have gone?"

"No idea at all, dear. Why don't you go up and search for clues? I'll bring you a cuppa in a few."

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson. Sounds good."

The flat was much the same as when John was last there. John hung up his jacket and noted the absence of Sherlock's coat. John glanced around the sitting room. The violin was missing, as expected if Sherlock planned on being gone for more than a week. Nothing else seemed out of place, more than usual. Nothing noticeable added to the disorder. John ran his fingers over the Union Jack pillow and resisted the urge to bury his nose in the blanket on the sofa.

The rattling of porcelain on a tray announced Mrs. Hudson's arrival. "Find anything yet?"

"Not yet." John gestured for Mrs. Hudson to sit down in his chair. He accepted a cup of tea from her and perched on the table that served as Sherlock's desk. "Thank you for this."

"Don't mention it, dear." Mrs. Hudson paused to sip her tea. "I've missed bringing Sherlock his tea and biscuits. I've been trying to keep him on a regular eating schedule."

"You're a saint."

"Well, he doesn't function as well without you."

"Turns out the same is true for me." John lifted the teacup to his mouth, willing his hand to stay steady.

Mrs. Hudson tilted her head and fixed John with her piercing gaze. "What's going on?"

"Just the usual, Mrs. Hudson. I've fucked everything up."

Not able to withstand her scrutiny, John placed his cup on the table and paced the room. Avoiding the pity in his former landlady's eyes, he picked up a piece of paper from Sherlock's music stand, obviously his latest composition.

"Nepenthe", he murmured.

"Oh, is that its name? It's such a sad tune. He's been working on it on and off ever since you returned to Mary."

John did not know for certain how much Mrs. Hudson knew about what had really happened with Mary. Probably all of it, without even being told.

The name sparked Mrs. Hudson's curiosity. "Nepenthe… funny word, isn't it? I wonder what it means?"

"Let's find out." John looked up the term on his phone. " _A drug described by ancient writers as banishing grief or trouble from a person's mind._ " After he read it aloud, he gasped, "Jesus. He wasn't using before he left, was he?"

Mrs. Hudson rose from her chair and stood next to John, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. "I'm positive he wasn't. Mycroft was here a few times and never seemed troubled, and otherwise Sherlock had been working on that case with you."

John continued to scroll down. "It's also the name of a restaurant in Big Sur, California."

"Well, that sounds much more pleasant."

The thumbnail images for the restaurant triggered a memory. "Hold on, Sherlock's been there. He told me about it once." John pinched the bridge of his nose and closed his eyes to recall the conversation.

"We were on a case last year, hunting down a crack shot, and Sherlock mentioned his time away. He said the case reminded him of a chase surrounded by families and beauty and if his sniper found him, he hoped to break his fall in the trees that covered the cliffs on the way down." John shook his head. "I reacted poorly to the mention of a fall, still so angry. Sherlock stopped talking and never shared anything else about his time away."

Mrs. Hudson pulled him into a hug as he said, "I regret that now. I have so many regrets."

And as John approached the wood and metal building overlooking tree-covered cliffs leading to the sea, he knew he would have always regretted not following his instincts, which brought him here to the Central California coast. Big Sur.

 _No stopping now_ , John thought, and he rapped sharply on the door.

Sherlock opened the door, and John almost wept at the gently pleased look upon Sherlock's face. With his doctor's eyes, John scrutinized Sherlock's health: freshly bathed and dressed in his usual comfort clothing of choice - t-shirt, pajama bottoms, and dressing gown, the blue one this time. His eyes were bright, but clear, and John relaxed a bit, assured Sherlock had not turned to drugs.

While John had been conducting his appraisal, Sherlock had been conducting one of his own. "You look like hell, John."

"Well, thanks. This isn't the first place I stopped. I tried the resort with all the yurts first."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "I've seen you drive, and the fact you've survived Highway 1 while exhausted is a miracle."

Both men laughed, and the tension subsided a bit. Sherlock stepped back to wave John into his suite. It was light and airy and modern, and John immediately wanted to hide there for weeks. The view out of the floor-to-ceiling windows caught his eye, as did the deck. "Is that a stainless steel hot tub?"

"Yep. And it's well shielded from the wind. Quite peaceful out there."

Sherlock sat down on the sofa, and John took the leather armchair. They appreciated the scenery in silence, and then John said, "Eleven hour flight from Heathrow to SFO. Hopped into a rental car and started driving south. Tried the resort with the yurts first, because it sounded so much like you. Then the place with the cinnamon rolls, because of your sweet tooth. Thought this place was too posh, even for you."

Sherlock chuckled. "I did stay in the yurts when I was here previously. Didn't know about the place with the cinnamon rolls." He turned to face John, curling his legs up onto the sofa. "But I chose this place because Mrs. Hudson made me promise to eat and take care of myself while I was away."

Sherlock looked directly at John. "And I do keep my promises, John."

 _One more miracle. A first and last vow._

"I know you do," John whispered.

The sunset burned red over the ocean. Neither man seemed to need more than silent companionship. As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, Sherlock said, "Too much marine layer in the distance for a green flash tonight. Maybe tomorrow."

Not wanting to assume he'd be welcome to stay, John replied, "Maybe."

"You must be hungry. The mini-bar is surprisingly well-stocked, or I could request food from the resort's restaurant, if you prefer?"

"Mini-bar will do, thanks."

John moved to rise from his chair, but Sherlock raised his hand. "Allow me to play host, since you've traveled so far."

John slumped back in his chair. "I'm too tired to even pretend to protest."

Sherlock smirked and then walked over to the bar. John closed his eyes and had actually drifted off for a few moments before Sherlock tapped him on the shoulder.

"Seriously?" John surveyed the table full of local cheeses, dried fruits and nuts, crackers, and craft beer. "Clearly we've been staying at the wrong places."

"Do you want to know how much this place costs?"

"Nope."

Sherlock grabbed one of the bottles of beer and raised it. John brought the other up to Sherlock's and tapped it in a gentle toast. Neither man spoke, but John believed they both were toasting the other and their future.

They ate in what was still an unexpectedly comfortable silence, considering the circumstances. Finally sated, John opened his mouth to start the conversation he'd come thousands of miles to have, but Sherlock interrupted him.

"Not now, John. You're exhausted, and you're terrible at these sorts of conversations to begin with, even worse than I am, so let's wait until tomorrow." Sherlock's expression was unsure, worried he had upset John. "Okay?"

"Yeah." John averted his gaze. The deepening blue of the sky was a safer sight than Sherlock's open, vulnerable face. "I wish I was better at this sort of thing, Sherlock. You deserve better than what I can give."

Sherlock waved a dismissive hand. "Nonsense, John. I find your incompetence strangely soothing."

"Shut it." John smiled, grateful for Sherlock's understanding.

Sherlock responded with a rude gesture, before ruining it by saying, "Go to sleep. Take the bed. You'll be more comfortable."

"You sure?"

"I'll be able to sleep just fine on this sofa. Have done a few times since I've arrived. But just a warning, I'll have to pass through the bedroom to get to the bathroom, so I might disturb you."

"I've dealt with worse." Sleep beckoned to John, but he did not want to retire for the night so soon after seeing Sherlock again. "Will you be disappointed if I go to bed this early?"

"You need your rest." Sherlock picked up a tablet from the floor next to the sofa. "And I've been catching up on the _Journal of Forensic and Legal Medicine_. I'll have plenty to occupy me."

Satisfied, John said, "Thank you, Sherlock, for everything."

Sherlock nodded curtly, and John forced himself up out of the chair. He grabbed his duffel and walked into the bedroom. One entire wall was windows, and the view would be spectacular during the day. However, that is not what attracted John's attention. He called out, "I think the bed is bigger than my entire room at Baker Street!"

"Go to sleep!"

John smiled to himself as he gathered his toiletries and went into the bathroom. The soaking tub was tempting, but fatigue won out. After brushing his teeth and washing the day's travels off, John examined himself in the mirror. He appeared more content than he had in months, even in these strange, fancy surroundings. More than ever, he knew the decision to follow Sherlock to California was the right one. John never felt more at peace, more at home than he did when he was with Sherlock.

Still, as he was burrowing under the soft duvet, John could not help but feel uncertain. The reunion had gone better than expected, but would it last?

"Will you still be here when I wake up?" John pitched his voice just loud enough to be heard in the adjacent room.

Sherlock's quick response was easily audible. "Yes, John, I promise."


	5. Forgetting - Part 2

John awoke to the sound of the shower running. Even before the events of the previous night came back to him, he recognized the audible pattern of Sherlock's shower routine. The steady drumming from standing with the water beating down on him for long periods of time. The distinctive cadence of the caps popping on shampoo and conditioner. John smiled to himself, feeling more relaxed than he had in months. The combination of comfort and jetlag lulled him back to sleep.

The next time John woke, he could smell the blessed aroma of coffee. He heard the clinking of dishes and cutlery. He lifted his head off the pillow and called, "Sherlock?"

"You have time to take a quick shower. I'm just taking breakfast off the delivery tray."

John grinned. Of course, Sherlock would answer the question that John needed answering. He dragged himself out of bed and into the bathroom. His mood struck him as one of a lazy Sunday morning, so after showering, he put on a fresh t-shirt with his pajama bottoms and shrugged on a fluffy white robe provided by the resort.

As he entered the sitting room, he noticed Sherlock was dressed much the same way, except he was wearing his own camel-coloured dressing gown.

"Good morning, John. Sleep well?"

"Yes." John sat down at the breakfast table. "Thanks for all this."

"No problem at all. Usually the guests here dine at a breakfast buffet in the restaurant, but the maitre d' owes me a few favors."

"Already?"

"I found him to be a useful contact when I was in the area before."

John just sipped his coffee in response and hoped Sherlock would elaborate without prompting. He filled his plate with hard-boiled eggs, fruit salad with crème fraiche, and zucchini walnut bread still warm from the oven. For a while, both men silently ate, but then John was rewarded for his patience as Sherlock continued his story.

"I was in San Francisco for a time. Have you ever been there?"

"Not if the airport doesn't count."

"It does not." Sherlock smiled. "I love San Francisco. It reminds me of London."

As John raised his eyebrows in surprise, Sherlock said, "I know. Most people would expect me to say New York, but San Francisco has a similar glamour and mystery **,** drawing all sorts of people there. The beating heart to the city is so familiar to me. I love to walk its hills, hear the different languages in each neighborhood.

Sherlock paused with a forkful of fruit salad in his hand. "Once, after a pursuit, I found myself at the Ferry Building. I was so hungry. It had been a rough patch, little contact with Mycroft, even less money. There was a farmers market going on, and I was frankly abusing the kindness of the vendors by eating as many of the samples as I could." He ate the fruit off of his fork and shook his head wistfully. "At one of the booths, I had a sliver of plum that was perfect. It was the most perfect bite of food I have ever tasted."

Sherlock put his fork on the table and pushed his plate away. "I couldn't help but think to myself _John would be proud of me for eating something healthy_. And I wandered the rest of the market pretending you were with me, helping me deduce the tourists."

Sherlock ducked his head as if he was embarrassed, and John swallowed around the lump in his throat. After a few false starts, John finally said, "I know I shut you down before, but if you ever want to tell me about your time away, I'm ready to listen now."

"Thank you."

John smiled at him and, hoping to break the tension, asked, "Think about me often while you were playing dead?"

"Every hour of every day."

John nibbled on some bread and hoped Sherlock didn't notice how much his hand was shaking.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Sherlock got up and went to the refrigerator. He returned with two champagne flutes and a carafe of what appeared to be orange juice.

"I took the liberty of ordering mimosas." Sherlock sat back down and served them a generous portion each. "I have a feeling we'll need the help this morning."

John raised his glass. "To this morning, then."

Sherlock raised his as well. "To this morning."

John took a long swig of his mimosa. "I'm probably going to need something stronger to have this discussion."

"This was the only alcoholic beverage on the breakfast menu. Funny, how adding juice to champagne makes it a morning drink."

John blew out a long breath. "Harry says I can be a nasty drunk, anyways. That's something, coming from her."

"I have not found you to be so." Sherlock stood up, taking his glass and the carafe with him. He placed them on the coffee table and sat on the sofa. "Take your time finishing breakfast."

John dipped a hard-boiled egg into a mix of salt and pepper. He waved the egg towards the deck. "It's foggy out there today. I was hoping to see this view in full daylight."

As John chewed the egg, Sherlock said, "Even at this time of year, the marine layer usually recedes for a while in the afternoon. You should get your wish.

John eventually pushed away from the table and brought his empty champagne flute over to Sherlock. He refilled their glasses before sitting down in the armchair.

After a few moments of silently looking out the windows, Sherlock said, "First of all, I'd like to apologize for my behavior. I'm sorry I lost my composure. You acted in the best interest of the case, and Shelton was apprehended. That was due to your actions, so thank you."

John was genuinely touched by this admission. "You're welcome."

Sherlock inclined his head to let John know he had heard, but otherwise remained quiet. John realized Sherlock had been brave enough to start the discussion, so he needed to be brave enough to reciprocate.

"You left me a clue, and you checked in under your own name. You wanted me to find you."

"I thought you'd get here sooner."

"You had asked me to give you space, and I had things of my own to handle before finding you."

"I see." Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest and closed in on himself.

"I'm not sure you do."

When Sherlock looked up at him, John continued. "I filed a motion to get my marriage nullified. Mycroft has been quite helpful in that regard."

Sherlock drew in a shocked breath. John carried on. "I went back to Ella, my therapist. She's been helpful."

"I thought you didn't like her."

"To be fair to Ella, she's a far better therapist than I am a patient."

As John hoped he would, Sherlock smiled. "Well, she has taught you how to be introspective."

"You have no idea." John took a deep breath and then sighed. "I also waited for the results of a paternity test."

"What?"

"Turns out I'm not going to be a father after all."

"Oh, John. I am so sorry."

"Yeah, me, too. That's part of what I've been talking to Ella about." John sipped his mimosa. "I was surprised by the pregnancy. Never actually wanted to be a father, but I have to admit the idea had grown on me."

Sherlock's brows furrowed and a confused look crossed his face. "I don't know why, but I feel like I've lost something myself. That's so selfish of me, but I wanted to meet your child."

John laughed, startling Sherlock. "I was planning on having you change her nappies and feed her, teach her how to dance, frighten her dates when she was older."

Sherlock chuckled in return, but sounded sad. "I was going to order a cot for Baker Street, to let you know that both you and your daughter would always be welcome."

 _Oh._ "Sherlock…"

Sherlock could not contain his anger. "How could Mary have wanted anyone else when she had you?"

"Well, that's related to some of the other things I worked through with Ella."

"John, why are you here?"

John placed his glass on the table. "Why do you think I'm here?"

"To repair our friendship." Sherlock raised his hand to forestall any interruption. "I have no expectations for this visit, John. But I know you were upset by the way we left things. I'd hoped that by the time you found me, I'd be ready to go home again, to go back to our friendship as it was. Your friendship is the most important thing in my life, John."

"You want nothing more than friendship?"

"John, please, why are you here?"

"To forget the past and all my mistakes. To know you, to know us."

"I don't understand." Whereas John's voice had grown more steady, Sherlock's speech had become shaky, pleading.

"I've been in denial about a lot of things, Sherlock. What I need to make myself happy. The reasons for my marriage. My feelings for you."

"Don't pity me, John."

"This isn't pity. Sherlock, I…"

Sherlock interjected. "No. There must be a reason why you're saying this now. It isn't like you came home when I returned. You still got engaged. You still got married. You carried on with your life as if I hadn't returned at all."

"I carried on with the life I had built while you were gone because I was terrified of going back to you again. Sherlock, your death almost killed me. Do you understand? And to leave Mary, to go back to you, would have meant giving you that power over me again. Yet it was all I wanted, and I was scared, so I stayed the course. I got engaged, as I'd planned. I got married, as I'd planned. To someone I thought was a wonderful woman. She helped me, Sherlock. I honestly don't know if I would have been alive to see you again if it wasn't for her."

Sherlock buried his face in his hands.

John softened his voice. "But she wasn't who I thought she was. And I'm not who I thought I was, either."

John moved to sit on the couch next to Sherlock. He placed a hand between them, palm up. He willed Sherlock to take his hand, and after a few heartbeats, Sherlock did. John held his breath as their hands slowly moved against the other.

Sherlock asked, "So, who are you?"

 _This is it._ "Someone who is attempting to be brave enough to admit the truth. That I love you, Sherlock Holmes. And I want to come home with you to Baker Street. To finally know what we could potentially be together."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand briefly, and then let go as he stood up. He walked over to the window and stared at the ocean. "I want to retire by the sea someday. Perhaps Sussex."

John recognized the tone of Sherlock's voice. Sherlock was working through the discussion in that beautiful brain of his, talking aloud about something else, perhaps something related, while processing. Still, John was surprised by Sherlock's declaration. "Never thought of you as the retiring type."

Sherlock half turned towards John, who took the opportunity to admire his profile. "I never thought I'd live long enough to retire."

John prompted, "So what has changed?"

Sherlock turned fully towards John. His entire countenance was soft, welcoming, and John's heart thrummed a rapid melody. As he smiled, Sherlock replied, "I have something, someone, in my life that makes it worth living."

John rose from the sofa and joined Sherlock by the window. He slowly wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist and rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock's arms enfolded John, whose heart broke a little at how tentative Sherlock was. They held the pose for a few moments before John giggled.

"It feels strange to be the shorter one while hugging."

Sherlock hummed. "You fit perfectly." John felt a gentle pressure on the top of his head. Sherlock was leaning his cheek against John. "You're perfect."

The sun emerged through the marine layer, bringing out the deep blue and vibrant aquamarine of the Pacific Ocean. "God, that's gorgeous."

"Yes, it is."

John looked up at Sherlock. The sunlight was highlighting the subtle auburn hues in Sherlock's hair, and John longed to touch it. He almost laughed out loud as he realized he could. He reached up and ran his fingers through soft curls. As he did so, Sherlock's lips parted, and John kissed him. _This is our first kiss, our real first kiss,_ John thought, as Sherlock sweetly, but shyly, kissed back. Gentle presses of lips, tugging on top and bottom lips by turns.

John broke the kiss and pulled back, but still held Sherlock by his upper arms. Relief flooded through John. Sherlock was not running away, and John's fears of a possible sexual identity crisis were unfounded. He felt right and true, for once in his life.

Sherlock merely gazed down at him.

"Good?"

"John."

John moved a hand to caress Sherlock's jaw. "Everything alright?"

"John."

"Are you blushing?" John had noticed a pinkness to Sherlock's cheeks that had not been present before.

Sherlock responded by tightening his hands on John, and it occurred to John that, although he did not have experience with men, he likely had more experience than Sherlock. Whose awkwardness right now was charming, but John knew better than to say that.

John rose up on his toes and gave Sherlock a more urgent kiss than the one they'd exchanged a few moments before. He felt Sherlock's knees wobble a little. At that, John did chuckle, and Sherlock gasped, "John."

"Oh, the things I'm going to do to you."

Sherlock's eyes widened, but his grip grew stronger. John drew his head down and lightly rubbed his nose against Sherlock's. "Come on, let's go relax in the hot tub, shall we?"

Sherlock nodded, and John grabbed his hands. As they walked out onto the deck, Sherlock halted. John asked, "Hey, are you okay?"

"I love you."

John may have teared up just a little. "I know you do. I love you, too"

"I've never said it before." Wonder shone through Sherlock's words.

John looked Sherlock solidly in the eye. "I've never meant it before."

This time, Sherlock kissed John.


	6. Forgetting - Part 3

The cab ride from Heathrow to Baker Street was uneventful. John smiled the entire way, past the Fuller's Brewery and the Royal Albert Hall, through Hyde Park and down Wigmore Street. John's body buzzed with the electricity of being in London again, his blood singing as it always did upon returning to his favorite city. As they pulled up to 221B Baker Street, though, John remembered he did not feel this way when he invalided out of Afghanistan or the last time he approached this particular flat. He glanced at Sherlock sitting silently next to him and knew he'd always feel the most alive at his side.

John and Sherlock had lingered in Big Sur for two weeks, talking, hiking, laughing, eating and learning to openly love each other. Then they moved on to San Francisco, where Sherlock spent a week with John exploring the alleys of Chinatown and following in the footsteps of Emperor Norton. John learned Sherlock had an affinity for Dungeness crab and Ghirardelli chocolate in the touristy parts of town. The two men feasted their way through the Ferry Building and its farmers market, holding hands and deducing people the entire time. John had never seen Sherlock so relaxed and happy. John discovered Sherlock snored lightly and cuddled fiercely in his sleep. That Sherlock quickly became a fantastic kisser and that his fingers were as skilled at playing John's body as they were on the violin. And John became even more convinced he had never truly loved anyone before, including himself. For the first time in his adult life, John felt fully actualized, completely comfortable in his own skin and with who he was.

Both men had traveled light, so Sherlock took their bags and his violin up to the flat as John paid the cabbie. John took off his jacket as he bounded up the seventeen steps to the sitting room, _their_ sitting room, but he came to an abrupt stop in the doorway.

Sherlock was standing in the center of the room, shoulders bowed, as he surveyed a pile of John's possessions. He turned to John, seemingly unsure. "I had Mycroft retrieve your belongings from your… Mary's flat. I hope it wasn't too forward of me."

John tossed his jacket over the back of his chair. "Of course not. You know I wanted to move back. I'm happy to return home."

Sherlock walked over to the window and looked out at the street below, where raindrops had begun to paint the pavement. "I… I didn't… do you...?" Sherlock raked his fingers through his hair and growled in frustration.

John walked over to him, placing his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. The tension was easily detectable, and John started to lightly massage Sherlock. "Hey, what's going on?"

Sherlock pulled away. His mouth pressed into a thin line, and then he took a deep breath before speaking. "I didn't know if I could tell Mycroft to have the bags put in my room or in your room, or if _our_ room exists. I didn't know what to say, so I just had the bags dropped inside the door."

Sherlock looked directly at John. "I don't know what you want now."

Sherlock's statement stunned John. They had spent three weeks with each other, leading to the moment they returned home. John felt anger start to build in him because of Sherlock's doubts. "I want you. I want us."

"It was easy while we were in California. It was a blissful holiday, the best time of my life. It was easy for you to forget yourself, the 'not gay' John Watson, the 'married' John Watson, the 'Queen and Country' John Watson. But we're back in London now, so it'll be harder for you to forget."

John's anger dissipated in an instant. Of course, Sherlock would have doubts. The previous time the two men were in this room together, Sherlock had practically confessed his love, and John had responded carelessly. John walked over to Sherlock, who was standing in front of the sofa, and grabbed his elbows lightly. Looking up into Sherlock's vulnerable face, John said, "Let me tell you what I want to forget. I want to forget the last time we were in this room, when I was a heartless arse to you because I did not yet know my heart. I want to forget ever leaving you behind here, going back to a woman I never loved the tiniest fraction as much as I love you, because I did not yet know how to love. I want to forget all the times I felt like strangling you when we lived together, because I did not know what I really wanted was just to touch you."

John saw fragile hope form in Sherlock's eyes, but he still said, "John, please be sure."

"Boys, you're home!"

John and Sherlock had been so focused on each other that neither had heard Mrs. Hudson approach. She stood in the doorway beaming at them.

Sherlock started to move away, but instead John said, "Hello, Mrs. Hudson. Look who I found!" Then John placed a hand on Sherlock's neck and drew him down for a kiss.

John ended the kiss when Mrs. Hudson squealed with delight. "I knew it. It's about time the two of you figured it out."

Sherlock dropped wordlessly onto the sofa.

Mrs. Hudson placed her hands on her hips. "Manners, Sherlock. Really. You haven't seen me in weeks. Say hello."

Sherlock blinked. And blinked again.

"I may have broken him with a public display of affection, Mrs. Hudson."

Their landlady swatted John's arm. "Well, you'll just have to fix him before I bring your tea up."

Mrs. Hudson gave John a quick kiss on the cheek, and then she stepped over to Sherlock. She ruffled his hair. "Oh, my silly boy." Then she leaned over to kiss the top of his head.

As she walked down the stairs, she called, "I'll be back up in ten minutes, so be decent."

John grinned at his still silent Sherlock, who at least was able to look at him now. John sat next to him and hugged him. "Hi, there."

"You kissed me in front of Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes."

Sherlock remained stiff in John's arms and did not hug him back. "She knows."

"She knows. You know. I know."

To John's dismay, Sherlock's lower lip trembled as he asked, "And you're okay, with the knowing?"

John squeezed Sherlock even closer to him and punctuated his words with kisses. "I am John Watson, and I love Sherlock Holmes. Miraculously, you love me, too. I want Stamford to know what his introduction has meant to us. I want Lestrade and Donovan to know, the whole Yard to know. I want Harry to know. I want Mycroft and your lovely parents to know. Sherlock, I want the whole world to know."

Finally, Sherlock's arms wound around John's waist, and he nuzzled into John's neck. "Thank you, John. As much as I hate to admit it, I might need reassurance for a while yet. Part of me still can't believe you're here."

"I'm finding it easier to talk now that I'm not doing so much lying to myself."

Sherlock kissed John's neck before lifting his head to smile at John. "Me, too."

After exchanging a few kisses, John said, "Can you imagine the look on Mycroft's face the first time we snog in front of him?"

"Please do not mention my brother and snogging in the same sentence." Sherlock shuddered.

Realizing there were many topics they still had to discuss, John said, "In all seriousness, though, I can move back into my old room if you'd prefer."

"Not a chance. You'll move into my room, our room, because it's the larger of the two. I'll even make room for your clothes, but do not touch my sock index."

Sherlock smirked, and John responded mockingly, "Oh, I wouldn't dare."

John intertwined their fingers. "Things might get a little awkward when people ask about Mary and the baby, though."

Sherlock raised their hands and kissed each of John's knuckles individually. "We'll get through it together."

"Oh, look at the two of you, all soppy and romantic." Mrs. Hudson's tone was giddy as she walked in the sitting room.

"Mrs. Hudson, you might find it wise to knock from now on."

"You better start closing your doors, Sherlock. Not like you boys could possibly do anything to shock me." Mrs. Hudson winked at them as she set down the tea tray on the table.

Sherlock blushed, John laughed. "Please join us, Mrs. Hudson."

"I brought a third teacup just in case you asked."

Mrs. Hudson prepared their tea to their individual preferences, and then she settled into John's chair. John kept his arm around Sherlock's shoulders, and Sherlock relaxed against him.

"So, you finally ditched that awful Mary. I'm glad, John, but I am sorry about the child." Mrs. Hudson winced sympathetically.

John asked, "Mycroft filled you in?"

"No, why would I need Mycroft to tell me this? I can read you boys like a book, always could. That's why I was so surprised when you told me you were moving on…"

As Mrs. Hudson babbled happily at them, Sherlock rolled his eyes at John and rested his head on his shoulder. In that instant, John had everything he needed and would ever want. As he turned to kiss Sherlock's precious curls, John knew he would never forget the pain or sorrow littering the path to this moment. He also knew he would not want to forget, because the journey led to this, John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, together as they were always meant to be.


End file.
